


I want much more

by wearethewitches



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Affairs, Alternate Canon, Arranged Marriage, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Attempted Sexual Assault, Belle/Rumplestiltskin | Mr. Gold in the Enchanted Forest, Bisexual Female Character, Consensual Sex, Dark One Rumplestiltskin | Mr. Gold, Dealfic, F/F, F/M, Fairy Tale Elements, Family Drama, Français | French, Gaston (Disney) Being an Asshole, Gaston Being Gaston (Disney), Gen, I Tried, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Ogre Wars (Once Upon a Time), Princess Belle (Once Upon a Time), Scandal, Sex, Sibling Love, Sisters, Threats of Violence, Trans Character, Voyeurism, War, Worldbuilding, because i want belle to be something other than a gentle flower virgin, healthy sex lives of young adults, to be specific french fairy tales
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-04
Updated: 2020-02-07
Packaged: 2020-07-30 19:22:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 16,347
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20102335
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wearethewitches/pseuds/wearethewitches
Summary: Princess Belle of Avonlea is having a very trying week.Her sister is getting married to the love of her life, Gaston LeGume keeps insisting they're engaged and the Ogres are threatening her kingdom.To top it all off? The Dark One. Who's slumming it in the basement.





	1. Day One, Afternoon

In the northern principality of Avonlea, there lives a knight, his lady and their children. The knight, Sir Maurice, was once a simple kitchen-boy and then a squire from the Enchanted Forest, who went on to take part in several skirmishes in what, later, were called the Northern Territories. One of said skirmishes had him given his knighthood, lands and titles by a particularly benevolent and more pointedly, _childless_ king; Sir Maurice was one of many hundreds of knights to be given holdings in his principality when it became clear to the king that there would be an end to his dynasty.

Sir Maurice wed the Lady Colette, shortly thereafter in an arranged marriage. An inhabitant of the Northern Territories, Lady Colette and Maurice at first could barely understand each other, due to the language difference. It was a problem – but they learned to love each other without words, communicating through actions.

Unfortunately for what would become known as Avonlea, the Lady Colette could not breach the language barrier in time before Sir Maurice had arranged the prominent staffing of various legislative and defensive bodies – who all spoke Commontongue, rather than the native Northern dialect. Avonlea, in the following years, becomes one of the few principalities in the Northern Territories to speak Commontongue as the major language.

This does not mean that Belle, fifth daughter of Sir Maurice and Lady Colette, does not speak it.

“_Au revoir, mademoiselle_,” the princess murmurs against the lips of a particularly giggly servant-girl. She’s a new addition to the palace staff, most likely being paid less than what she’s owed; the Ogres are getting closer and their former servants aren’t leaving because they were asked.

“_Au revoir, princesse_,” the girl replies, before sneaking out through the servants’ passage behind a tapestry. It’s one of the few decorations left in Belle’s rooms, only remaining for propriety’s sake – no-one should see the help.

Sighing to herself, Belle inspects her state of dress. Her pale green skirt is ruffled and crimped, where she had it rucked up, but that could be from the general day’s wear and tear, rather than a young woman’s indiscretions. More worrying is her hair. Belle huffs at the sight of it in the mirror, half her hair having fallen out of its precarious updo.

“Damn it.” Belle whispers to herself, knowing she either needs the girl to come back or for her sisters to help. Sir Percinet is supposed to arrive this afternoon, if he hasn’t already. Belle had already been cutting it fine, dallying with the servant. Determined _not_ to call back the girl, Belle gets to her feet and exits out onto the balcony, taking a sharp left along to her sister, Étoile’s room.

Rapping on the glass pane of her windowed doors, Belle raises an eyebrow at where Étoile sits on her chaise-lounge doing needlework, waiting for her sister to look up before knocking again. Étoile glances back at the main doors to her room, faintly suspicious as she stands, coming to let Belle in.

“Why didn’t you use the inside door, Belle?” Étoile asks, taking in Belle’s dishevelled hair and wrinkled dress. She mutters a prayer to herself. “Sleeping with the help, again?”

“At least I’m not doing it with the stable-boy, like Melusine,” Belle claims, before pouting. “Will you fix my hair for me, Étoile?”

Étoile rolls her eyes and steps back to let her in. “I suppose I must.”

“Thank-you,” Belle says, grateful as she slips across to Étoile’s vanity, sitting down in front of the mirror. When Étoile comes to stand behind her, already plucking at the ruined styling, Belle can’t help but compare them.

All five of Sir Maurice’s daughters look like their mother, the Lady Colette. They have her dark brown hair and her pointed chin – spitting images, all of them. But Belle, having grown with all her sisters, knowing them inside and out, sees the differences starkly. Where Étoile is tall, Belle is short; where Étoile’s eyes are round and captivating, Belle’s are large and thin at the edges; where Étoile is content and calm, Belle is vibrant. Étoile also has a widow’s peak that Belle didn’t inherit, while Belle has a dimple when she smiles that Étoile doesn’t share, either.

Belle is also several inches shorter than her sisters – Étoile being the tallest of them all, matching their father for height. It's something of an annoyance.

“What did she do, drag her hands through it?” Étoile mutters to herself, Belle in no mood to be cheeky as she sighs, nodding. Étoile busies herself with removing pins, eventually brushing it through and saying, “Rosette and Melusine are teasing me about Percinet.”

“_Il est votre_ _cher chéri_,” Belle argues, frowning, “You’re to be married. They can’t tease you for that.”

“This will be the first time we’ve met since the Tourney of Yellowsun,” Étoile says, harried and sharp. “I am nervous, Belle. He’s taking the Eastern road. I worry for his safety, on that path. Their teasing doesn’t help my worries.”

“What about Marcassin?”

“What about _Marcassina_, you mean?” Étoile sends Belle a glare in the mirror, which Belle cowers under slightly. She reminds her in a hush, “Don’t call him that where others might hear. The old potwash is chaperoning me, hiding in the servants’ corridor with her sewing.”

“The help _know_.”

“Only the old guard and we have too many new, little Belle,” Étoile murmurs, before shaking her head. “Marcassina is quiet enough. She doesn’t like commenting – though I wish she would, sometimes. Silence can be disturbing at the wrong moment.”

“Marcassina likes Percinet, I think – she certainly seems happy, listening to you rattle on about his newest exploit,” says Belle.

Marcassin, more commonly known as Princess Marcassina, is the third child of Sir Maurice and Lady Colette’s children, Belle’s…_sister._ Most of the time, Belle knows that Marcassin likes being called her brother instead, but will live with being called _sister_ as he lives being called _Marcassina_ – though Belle hopes that eventually, he will find someone that will love him as he is.

Étoile, second-eldest after her twin sister, Rosette, has been in love with Percinet for years, now. Belle is happy for her, though not for the crowd that is gathering in the palace because of the wedding that will take place before the week is out. The guests themselves are not the problem, but her father, who thinks securing alliances by wedding his remaining daughters will save Avonlea from the by-now expected Ogre War.

It is a topic of much discussion between the sisters, when they have moments to themselves. Guards, under orders from their father, will forcibly interrupt their more public conversations about the rising threat. It’s to prevent them from spreading information, Belle knows – she’s witnessed her mother talking to a visiting courtier’s daughter, who got caught listening intently to Rosette’s ranting about the activities of the Ogre Clans. Her mother had cajoled – _threatened_ – the girl into silence, lest the girl wished to fall into disfavour throughout the other principalities.

Étoile begins to pin her hair up again and Belle takes the chance to ask her, “Did Father mention any possible suitors, when you were in the war room last night?”

“It’s not a war room,” Étoile says in a purposefully light voice. It’s not a war room _yet,_ is what she means to say. “And he did mention Lord LeGume’s sons would be in attendance.”

“Lord LeGume.” Belle grimaces. “Lord Vegetable, more like. His boorish son came here last summer, do you remember?”

“Yes – though I’m not sure if you know, but he was doing reconnaissance for Father,” Étoile says, inspiring shock from the younger princess. “He and his men killed an ogre while it slept. I heard he mounted its skull on his mother’s carriage. He brags about it. So, not much of a vegetable, but somewhat more _bloodthirsty moron._”

Belle feels her stomach flip-flop, all her previous calm from sexual gratification fading. _I hope Father doesn’t intend to marry one of us to him,_ she thinks, before Étoile finishes with her hair.

“There. Simple, but it will stay up. Keep your bedroom activities to a minimum while I’m yet wed, will you? I don’t wish for scandal to cloud the week.”

“I can live without pleasure of the flesh until you’re off getting your own, if that is truly what you wish, Étoile!” Belle exclaims, forcing a cheerful note to her voice. If Étoile catches its falsity, she doesn’t comment on it, instead dragging Belle to her feet.

“Come – Percinet should be here, soon.”

Belle lets her elder sister drag her away, out of the Royal Quarters to entrance hall, where they might wait and overlook the large double-doors and the grand staircase, too. On their way there, they run into their mother, who is surrounded by a gaggle of ladies.

“Oh, _mes filles_,” Lady Colette greets them with a smile, coming to press a kiss to either of their cheeks. Her hand rises to cup Étoile’s chin. “You have dark circles, Étoile. Do not fear, _mon amour_, Sir Percinet has been spotted by outriders. He shall be here before the hour turns.”

The relief on Étoile’s face is clear and her sallowness, which Belle had put down to lack of sleep, clears as her cheeks pinken. Étoile bows her head where Belle might have let her shoulders sag, nodding shortly.

“Good.”

Colette presses another kiss to her cheek. “Yes, _bon_. You will join us in the blue sitting room and then, we might all see your dashing fiancé after he traverses the city to reach you.” She looks to Belle, an amused glint to her eye. “As for you, my adventurous little princess, I do believe there is a gift waiting for you in the library.”

“The library?” Belle straightens her back, surprised. “Has there been a new delivery, Mama?”

“Not as such,” Colette says, cryptic – though she grins with teeth at how Belle fizzles with energy, fidgeting as her impatience mounts. “Mister Roberto has finished his repairs from the storm.”

Belle gasps loudly. “The books! They’re fixed? All of them?” Her body trembles, thinking of her prized copy of _Her Handsome Hero,_ ruined by rain and damp.

“_Oui_, now go – I can see your anticipation,” Colette teases, Belle curtseying hurriedly before scampering off in the direction of the library, feet practically flying across the stone ground. A grin bears across her face and she nearly doesn’t hear her mother’s passing remark to Étoile. “Who was she with, this time? I did her hair myself and I know she wouldn’t have taken it out on purpose.”

Cheeks flushing, Belle lifts her skirt to run up the stairs, leaving the range of her mother’s voice. The word _discretion_ – along with its counterpart, _discrétion_ – does not exist in her mother’s vocabulary, though it is highly important when involving her father’s court. No doubt the visiting ladies amongst her mother’s growing circle would titter and gossip about it, unless her mother had already inducted them into secrecy.

Because the Lady Colette, unlike Sir Maurice, did not care about dalliances with or without the same gender. She had raised her daughters the same way and had most likely encouraged Marcassin’s explorations in his sense of self.

_I love my family,_ Belle thinks gladly, even though, in the back of her mind, she still worries about surprise engagements – about ogres and war and marriage. She loves her family and this week is for Étoile.

Nothing can ruin it.

Not even Gaston LeGume.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Au revoir, mademoiselle/princesse - "Goodbye, miss/princess."  
Il est votre cher chéri - "He is your dearest darling."  
Mes filles - "My daughters."  
Oui - "Yes."  
Mon amour - "My love."  
Bon - "Good."


	2. Day One, Evening

Belle was wrong.

Belle was entirely and utterly _wrong._

“-and then I, myself, cut off its grey skin and personally dealt with all the things needed to prepare a skull,” proclaims Gaston, getting a short round of applause from nearby listeners. He smiles winningly, winking at Rosette before he turns back to Belle. “Though, of course, such things are not for a woman to hear.”

“I understand the process well enough from books, Sir Gaston.” Belle forces herself to be polite, sipping her wine. Gaston somehow smiles even wider, eyes flickering up and down. The seating arrangement for the banquet tonight is clear: if he is to marry anyone, it’s Belle.

“Books, yes, books – lovely things. I’ve read a few of those.”

“I’ve read out entire library.” Belle can’t help but boast, asking coquettishly, “How vast is the library of your home, Sir Gaston?”

For the first time in the four hours he’s been sat beside her, Gaston looks unnerved – almost uneasy. But then, he shakes his head, chuckling. “Knowledge is best gained by experience, I say! Books are good for some things, but real life – _that’s_ the way to learn how the world works.”

Belle bristles at his words, though they sting more than they anger. He’s – unfortunately – completely right and Belle knows it. There’s something to be said about living life through novels and histories, but actually getting out there and _doing_ it, living your own life in the vast and endless lands that exist, is where the fun lies.

She looks to her mother, once more nonverbally pleading, _can I leave?_ Colette glances her way and seems about ready to answer positively for once; then, out of the blue, Gaston takes her elbow and Belle jerks, wine spilling across her dress, staining the palest blue the darkest of purples. Gasping, Belle stands, dropping her goblet as Gaston curses.

“Oh Belle, my apologies!”

“That’s _Princess _Belle, to you!” Belle snaps at him, fleetingly happy to have taken him off-guard, his eyes widening at her rebuke. Hurrying out of her chair, Belle briefly dips her head to her parents and to Étoile and Sir Percinet. “I must take my leave – Father, Mother, Étoile, Sir Percinet.” She leaves out Sir Gaston’s name on purpose, refusing to acknowledge him.

Rosette, she can see, is silently cackling. Marcassin has ducked his head, though it doesn’t hide the shake of his shoulders. Melusine actually looks quite appalled, actually, probably over the state of her dress.

Étoile, however, is a different story.

“Yes, you must,” she says silkily. “Perhaps Sir Gaston might accompany you – who knows what drunken revellers might be lurking in the hallways.”

“Of course!” Gaston puffs up his chest, while Belle wordlessly tries to convey her intent to murder Étoile in her sleep. The son of Lord LeGume gets to his feet and yes, _of course_ the entire high table decides he’s more important and stands as well in respect. Belle fumes at the disrespect.

“A guard can take me,” she tries to get out of it, knowing it won’t work.

“Do not fear, my princess, for I shall be a more than adequate protector.” Gaston offers an arm, winking at her like he’d winked at Rosette, earlier. Propriety forces her to take it and she is like stone as they linger, still, Gaston saying his goodbyes – even as he claims that he will return to drink various knights and other lords under the table.

When they finally leave the banquet hall, Gaston falls unusually silent. It makes Belle wary – _rightfully_ wary, as no less than one corridor off the next floor of the palace on their way to her rooms, does he bring her wrist to his lips.

“Princess Belle…” he murmurs, pressing another kiss further up her arm. Belle snatches it away in an instant, stepping back – right into a wall. Gaston smirks. “If I may ask most plainly, Princess Belle: would you be adverse to spending the night with me?”

“Sir Gaston-” Belle starts, about to refuse his proposition, only for him to step forwards and claim her mouth for his own. She shrieks, pushing at his chest, even as he fondles her own. She can taste the sourness of wine on his tongue and the boar he had for dinner, feeling violated and not belonging to herself. _LET GO! _She screams in her mind, but she can’t pull back out of the kiss – not when there’s a wall at her back.

When Gaston parts for air, she takes her chance immediately, slipping out from in front of him and dancing out of his snatching grasp.

“How dare you?” she demands.

“Belle,” Gaston starts, chuckling, so _blasé _about the entire affair. “We are to be wed. Just ask your father and he will tell you.”

“Even if we are to be wed, which we are _not_,” Belle starts, firm, even though her lungs shake inside her. “You do not take liberties like that.”

“What are a few liberties between engaged folk?” Gaston takes a step forwards and Belle twists, running. She hears him call out her name once, twice – but she ducks into a half-hidden corridor, its entrance in an alcove for the servants’ use. It’s dimly lit and vaguely familiar. Belle remembers running through these halls and playing hide and seek with her sisters, when she was young.

_There’s a staircase and a way to my room, between floors,_ she recalls, slowing when she doesn’t hear Gaston following her. The servants’ corridors are deserted, all the help downstairs in the kitchens and banquet hall assisting, most likely.

Gaston’s _liberties_ make Belle think of her own reputation. She has taken many to bed before, men and women – though frankly, there are many more women than men on that list – and yet, she has never taken it upon herself to do what Gaston just did, _assuming_ and attempting to _manipulate._ If Belle were any younger or less experienced or less brave…

She finds her way back to her room, climbing a narrow, tall-stepped staircase and passing through a short corridor over what she thinks must be the bathing room – it’s the only room nearby with low ceilings. When Belle reaches the end of the corridor, she finds another narrow staircase and going down it is a much more precarious undertaking – especially in a dress that is trying to stick to her legs.

Belle nearly trips on the second to last step, but grabbing onto the wall saves her the fall and she takes in a deep breath of relief. Slowly, she levels out, looking left and right, squinting at the sight of furniture in the way of her preferred route. Turning the other way, Belle takes a few steps forwards, peering around the corner and discovering another staircase.

Belle frowns.

She doesn’t remember where it goes.

Looking back at the furniture stacked up in her way, Belle wavers on turning back the way she came would be easier. She certainly can’t go down the new staircase…can she?

In the back of her head, Belle registers that she’s had a lot of wine herself this evening and perhaps she _shouldn’t_ make decisions she’d most definitely regret in the morning – but part of her is also itching for adventure, egged on by Gaston’s commentary. Gaston, _ugh_. Why her father would ever engage her to him escapes her. Yes, his father has a great army of some renown, but there are other ways to recruit an army.

_Starting by not marrying me to that oaf,_ Belle thinks darkly, before deciding to venture downwards. The lights are non-existent, the torch at the bottom far off and flickering faintly. Belle half-expects to trip, fall and knock herself unconscious. Luckily, that doesn’t happen.

At the base of the staircase, the corridor spreads out into a dark, rectangular room clearly meant either to be some sort of wine cellar _or_ a safe-room for the Royal family, in case of attack. Belle briefly inspects the arch of the doorway, noting the lack of damage indicative of a door and promptly names the basement room a wine cellar.

_I could do with another drink, if only to forget Gaston’s lips._ Shivering – still tasting boar and sourness – Belle edges into the room, not expecting to pass through a clearly magical barrier, made of purple light. She turns around swiftly, gasping as she steps back, finally tripping up and falling back, down to the hard, stone ground.

“Magic,” she whispers, staring at the doorway. The barrier is visible now, pulsing and shimmering.

_Can I get out?_

The thought has her swallowing in apprehension, but something else distracts her. Footsteps. She hears them behind her and twisting her head back, Belle peers into the darkness, seeing the outline of a person. There’s utter blackness at their back – she barely sees them at all.

“Hello?”

A giggle rings out – high-pitched, but with a malevolent tinge that makes her tense.

“_Hello,_ she says. Aren’t you supposed to be Northern, girl? Don’t you speak _Northern,_ here?”

“Yes,” Belle snaps back, defensive all of a sudden. She gets to her feet, fists clenched at her sides, ordering them. “Step into the light!”

A pause. Silence. The figure doesn’t move-

“Why step, when I can teleport?” Comes the whisper behind her ear and Belle jumps, heart racing as she twists once more, staring at the person who has appeared at her back. His skin glitters like diamonds – his eyes amber and slitted, like a cats. Belle stares in horror as he raises claw-like nails up in a strange pose, one arm to his elbow and the other to his ear. “Hello, dearie! Welcome to my humble abode!”

“Who are you? What are you doing here?” she demands, shaken. The person- creature- _being_, smiles at her, teeth sharp and unpleasant.

“I’m the Dark One, dearie and to answer your question, I lost a bet.” His jaw gnashes, eyes glimmering. “I have to stay here a year and a day, never leaving during that time.”

“Why- why _here?_”

“That was my opponents choice,” the Dark One tells her, peering at her wine-soaked dress. He curls a finger in the direction of the stain. “What happened there?”

Belle bites her tongue, wanting to say _a moron happened,_ but this is the Dark One. She has read about his powers and his magic; he is unbeatable, immortal and one to be forever feared. His deals are the stuff of legends.

“Come on, dearie, I’m not going to bite.” He smiles at her and it’s…it’s _friendly_, almost familiar. He doesn’t move from where he stands though and he doesn’t try to touch her like Gaston.

It comes out in a burst. “A man tried to have me against a wall.”

Instantly, the Dark One’s smile disappears as he says, “What?”

Belle breathes in sharply, struggling to explain. The Dark One looks lost and- and _outraged_.

“He spilt wine on my dress at the banquet, then he escorted me out. I was supposed to go to my room and I didn’t want- I didn’t _want_ that. But he stopped us in the corridor near my room and didn’t wait for me to answer whether or not I wanted to _spend the night_ with him. I-” and it is here she stops, falling silent. Her own words sink into her head. Gaston didn’t wait for her to say yes or no. He fondled her chest and kissed her without her permission and surely would have taken it further, had Belle not used his pause wisely.

The Dark One looks left and right, anywhere but her. His voice is nervous, when he speaks. “Right. Of course. All men are pigs, yada-yada. I can turn him into one, if you like. I can do that, I can do that free of charge, even!”

“I- I don’t want you to turn Gaston into a pig.” Belle pauses. “That would be an insult to pigs.”

“Ha!” The Dark One laughs at her joke, grinning at her for a long moment, bouncing on the heels of his feet. He raises a hand, snapping his fingers loudly. “There you are. All nice and pretty again.”

Belle’s brow furrows, before she catches sight of her dress, clean of any wine. In fact, it looks even prettier and the feel of it softer against her skin.

“Oh!” She exclaims, eyes widening. “Th- th- thank-you, Dark One.”

“It’s nothing, dearie,” he disagrees, glancing upwards. “My price is the answer to a question.”

“What question?” Belle asks.

The Dark One points above. “Who sleeps above here?”

Belle blinks once, does the mental architectural mathematics, then says, “Me.”

His eyebrows rise. “_You_, dearie? Really?” He seems intrigued and it comes out in a step towards her. For some reason, Belle doesn’t step back in reply, feeling calmer in his presence than she does in Gaston’s. It’s strange and most likely a product of the wine, if she’s really thinking the Dark One is _safe._

“Yes, really. This is my home,” she says.

“And who might you be, to call this palace your home? A princess, are you? A lady in waiting?” He giggles, “A queen?”

“A princess,” Belle confirms, peering closer at his sparkling skin. He doesn’t react to her blatant staring. “You’re really trapped here? Of your own free will?”

“That and the lost bet,” the Dark One nods, before smirking. “You make a lot of noise, dear princess.”

For a long moment, his words don’t register. Belle doesn’t understand. Then, she does and she looks up at the ceiling in horror. _Oh gods! He’s heard me having my affairs with the servants!_

“How long have you been here?” She squeaks, staring at him. The Dark One giggles again. Mortified, Belle presses her hands to her face. “Oh, tell me, please, Dark One.”

“My voluntary imprisonment ends eight days from now,” he tells her, like this hasn’t been one of her most prolific years, trying out the new girls on staff. “Which is why I’m surprised you had an ill encounter with this…reprobate,” he waves his hand at the description of Gaston. “Did he know of your _bedroom exploits?_”

Flushing, Belle says, “No. He just has opinions on premarital relations.”

Once more, the Dark One raises his eyebrow. “A fiancé?”

“I don’t know,” replies Belle, feeling a queasiness in her gut. She has no wish to marry Gaston, not now, not ever. “He stated we were, but my father would ask me. He would tell me himself – and if not him, my mother.”

“Are you sure, dearie?” the Dark One asks in such a piteous manner that Belle actually questions it herself. _Would _her father tell her, if he promised her hand to another? And what about her mother? Mayhaps, father might not even tell her. The Lady Colette is known for being soft on her daughters.

Whispering, she says, “I hope not.”

The next silence that falls is less fraught with tension, but filled with unanswered questions in any case. Belle mulls over her future marriage prospects for a moment, then realises it’s all rather redundant, if the Dark One chooses to kill her right now. An absurd thought flows through her mind, making her laugh.

“What’s so funny?” the Dark One asks, fidgeting uncomfortably. “Did you have a murderous inclination to kill your maybe-fiancé?”

“No,” Belle laughs. “I just wondered at the absurdity of the Dark One hiding in the basement of a random palace, no-one knowing he’s there.”

For a moment, the Dark One considers it. Then, his lips pull into a new smile – one of soft amusement and a hint of irony. “Yes, I suppose that _is_ quite funny now, isn’t it?”

Belle nods, letting out a giggle of her own. The Dark One matches her and they smile at each other, before a yawn catches in her throat. The Dark One tuts, shaking his finger.

“Bedtime for princesses.”

“I agree,” Belle says, soft until she remembers why she came down in the first place. “But my journey through the servants’ corridors had to change course. I’ll have to return to where I first got in, in the first place.”

_Where Gaston might be waiting._

The Dark One stills, humming, “Where you escaped to,” he corrects, rightly. Belle looks to her hands, hearing him sigh theatrically. “Are you asking for help in returning to your room, dearie?”

“…can’t you teleport?”

“I can, but I’m bound to this room. Teleporting another – that’s magic of a different sort!” The Dark One says and there’s another giggle. Can he not help himself, she wonders? “You’ll have to _deal_ for that sort of passage.”

“What sort of price would you ask of a drunken girl?” Belle asks him in return. “Would you ask for a kiss? A conversation? A trinket or a promise? There are many stories of the Dark One.”

“Hm,” he hums, “not a kiss. You’ve been violated enough, today.” A strange outpouring of partiality towards the Dark One fills her chest, at his words and she finds herself trusting him, as he names his terms. “A conversation would do. It’s been dull down here, with no-one to talk to,” he says almost flippantly. “Come back down tomorrow. Visit me. I’ll put you back the same way and the cycle continues, unless you want to go back manually.”

Belle thinks on his offer. What harm is there in a conversation? The Dark One seems perfectly benevolent – perfectly human, even. He offered to punish Gaston for her without payment, warming the cockles of her heart.

“…alright,” she agrees. “A conversation. I’ll return tomorrow.”

The way his eyes light up in happiness tells her she’s made the good choice, even as he gleefully states, “Excellent! See you tomorrow, dearie!”

And then she is swept away in a pillar of smoke, magic tugging her up and around for a mere second before depositing her on her own bed in a way that makes her wine-full stomach roil. A breathless laugh escapes her.

“I just made a deal with the Dark One.”

She giggles.


	3. Day Two, Morning

When she awakens the next day, Belle deeply regrets ever tasting wine. Her head doesn’t pound and neither does she feel sick – but knowing her actions during her tipsy state makes her fearful. Lying in bed, thinking of her deal, Belle almost misses the servant entering her quarters to wake her.

“Your Highness,” they greet, reaching out to gently shake her shoulders. “Your Highness, it is time to wake.”

Rousing herself, Belle wipes her eyes of sand, sitting up. “Thank-you,” she utters, dragging herself out of bed. The servant attends her, filling her wash-basin with warm water from the kitchens and picking out a gown for that day. Belle is not so sleepy that she doesn’t catch their wide-eyed stare, aimed at her pristine dress from the evening before.

_It was stained,_ she recalls, worried that people will ask questions. Typically, gowns damaged so would be taken apart and reused for their fabrics, for there’s no saving them from such an assault.

“Did anything happen after I left, last night?” Belle asks them, trying to distract them. The servant – an older woman that Belle vaguely remembers being in charge of Melusine’s morning affairs before the shift in duties – glances her way, tilting her head as she speaks.

“Not much, Your Highness,” she bows her head. “I think there was an incident with Lord Harold’s son, regarding his conduct with one of the villagers, but that’s not for highborn ears.”

“Tell me,” Belle pleads, while the servant ties her corset. They dither.

“Oh, I would get in trouble, Princess. The things men do to each other…” The servant shakes her head, but it's enough for Belle to fill in the blanks, suddenly quite aware of what she means by _incident_.

Lord Harold’s son is a short, but strapping lad with wide shoulders and a penchant for poetry, Belle remembers – they once took harp lessons together, when he squired for the Master-at-Arms here in Avonlea, being of the same age. Belle also rightly recalls how much he adored the blacksmith’s son. They twittered on about him to each other in whispers, admiring his towering height and large arms, up until Belle’s father heard them and sent the boy home.

She hears they call him _Le Fou_, now.

“Were they caught being together?” Belle asks the servant in a hush, wincing as they pull the corset-strings too tight.

“It is not proper to speak of, Princess,” the servant says with the first hint of steel. She huffs, losing the respectful air she’d held before. “You’re just as bad as Princess Melusine.”

“Good,” Belle says crisply, offended. A stony silence follows, before she finishes dressing and sits down in front of her vanity. The servant does her hair, braiding a crown around her head; it is not unexpected, after the servant’s insistence on propriety. A crown braid is indicative of a young, single maid who is not seeking a match – usually something only a young teen or child would wear, or a young woman such as Belle the week her sister is getting married.

Considering how it also insults Gaston’s claim to her hand, Belle is quite willing to let it go.

“Thank-you,” she says again, after the servant is done. “Please go and ask Rosette and Marcassina if they would join me for a late breakfast. I’ll be in the cream dining room.”

The woman shallowly curtsies, weathered head bowing. “Yes, Your Highness.”

Waiting until the servant has left, Belle checks herself over in the mirror, once more thinking of the Dark One’s deal. She must visit him for at least one more conversation – he is clearly lonely. Any man would be lonely, after nigh-on a year in solitude. Belle is surprised in retrospect, that he didn’t try to keep her from leaving at all.

_He was kind, too._ She notes, somehow intrigued by the concept. All the tales and legends she has read tell of a cruel, horrible trickster, who would do anything for power and nothing for others. But this Dark One has morals – this Dark One gets uncomfortable at the idea of assault, even if murder seems to be the lesser problem. It implies that he has standards, not unlike a normal human being.

Deciding to shelve the issue, Belle wanders from her room to the cream dining area, a small sitting room slash dining room, meant for these sorts of private, early-morning meals. The butler straightens at her arrival, bowing primly.

“Your Highness, Princess Belle.”

“Good morning, Mister Descoteaux.” Belle greets the butler with a smile, gaining a slight twitch of the lip from the posh man. He looks particularly dashing in his coattails today – one of the few members of staff who is provided a uniform. “Please ask for breakfast to be brought up.”

“How many will be joining you today, Your Highness?”

“Rosette and Marcassina, hopefully.”

Descoteaux bows again before ringing the bell once, then thrice as Belle makes her way over to the dining table. There’s only base cutlery set out, with one extra spoon, rather than the usual five-set for breakfast. Belle remembers learning manners and courtesies at this table with her mother, who taught her daughters certain lessons on her own, rather than entrust the whole lot on their tutors and teachers.

Belle fingers the single extra spoon. She is intimately aware that all their extra belongings have been sold, to expand their coffers in preparation for the oncoming war. Thinking ahead – it’s one of the things her father is good at, where Belle isn’t.

The doors to the cream room open, the butler announcing her sisters, “Their Highnesses, Princesses Rosette, Melusine and Étoile.”

Belle raises an eyebrow at them all. “I was expecting Rosette and Marcassina.”

“Marcassina is still abed!” Rosette huffs. “They are refusing to get up – Descoteaux, call for breakfast.”

“Yes, Your Highness.”

Melusine slinks over, seating herself beside Belle at the table. Her grimace is clear at the sight of the cutlery. “Why are we selling our belongings, when we can just raise taxes?”

“Raising taxes on our villagers is the first step towards a revolt,” says Étoile.

“I thought you would have been joining Sir Percinet,” Belle notes. Étoile sits opposite her, draping a napkin over her heavy, embroidered gown. “You’re certainly dressed for it.”

“My betrothed is residing here and my wedding is tomorrow,” Étoile states, “which means it is no longer appropriate for me to act like I’m twenty-one, wearing silks and lace.”

“Why’s your hair like that, anyway?” Rosette peers at Belle, scrutinising her braid. “Gaston is here to become your betrothed, most likely. It’s an insult.”

“Exactly,” say Belle and Melusine as one, though one is prim and the other, outraged. Belle looks to Melusine, who is beginning to bubble with rage.

“You should be more respectful,” Melusine states, glaring slightly. Belle tilts her chin upwards.

“I will not marry him.”

“You do not have a choice.”

“No-one decides my fate but me,” Belle declares, looking to Étoile and Rosette for support. Étoile, unlike the evening before, is less inclined to take Gaston’s side in this – she looks serious as she nods in agreement.

“It is in discussion, most likely, but Father will wish for your opinion.”

“He will force her into it,” Melusine points sharply, “if it means getting their army.”

“Enough,” Rosette interrupts, a silence falling. The eldest of them all and heir to Avonlea, the sisters love and respect Rosette too much to fight her on it. “I have Father’s confidences and keep his secrets. Gaston’s engagement to one of us has been in the works for several years, now – there is no stopping it, Belle.”

Her heart falls inside her chest. “Rosette,” she pleads, helpless.

“I can’t help you, baby sister,” Rosette says, plain-faced and apologetic. “After breakfast, go and wake Marcassina – they can redo your hair. It’s not appropriate.”

“I don’t wish to marry that oaf.”

“Melusine is right. You don’t have a choice, here,” Rosette looks to Étoile, who rubs the bridge of her nose before turning to Belle.

“Étoile,” Belle pleads again, but Étoile has already been turned by her twin.

“You know it needs to be done. It’s a lot to take in, but at least you’re hearing it without Gaston being in the room,” she says, voice soft. They both know that if Belle had heard this for the first time with only Gaston in the room, her anger would barely be contained at all; though, superficial as Gaston is, none of them know if he’d pick up on it.

Standing up abruptly, Belle says, “I can’t deal with this.”

“Belle-” Étoile starts, but her youngest sister has already begun moving back past Descoteaux to the doors, running out of the room.

_I can’t marry him! _She thinks wildly. _I can’t, I can’t, I can’t-_

She remembers his hands, how they roamed over her chest and her stomach, squeezing and grabbing. She remembers his presence, his body looming over hers, curling down so his lips could press forcibly against hers. Belle tries to imagine him being kind and respective, but it is the opposite of everything that characterises _Gaston_.

Belle finds herself in Étoile’s room, going through the wrong door and burrowing herself in the wrong set of covers. They smell strange, like Étoile and pine. It’s odd and unusual, for Belle has stayed in Étoile’s bed with her before, in cold winters and nights full of thunder. Pine is not Étoile’s scent.

Then she spies a handkerchief on the floor.

“Étoile, you naughty girl,” Belle mumbles to herself, getting off the bed and picking the fabric up. It is in Sir Percinet’s colours of red and gold, his initials entwined with Étoile’s in the corner. She scrunches it up in her hand, looking around the room for any other sign that her sister’s beloved had spent the night.

A maid hasn’t been through yet to fix the bed, so she can see the indent of a second head on the pillows and how the candle on the left has been burnt down where usually, it is pristine. Belle knows that Étoile likes using the right side of the bed, right candle included. The corner of the carpet on the left is turned up, too.

_You have a messy betrothed, sister._

Folding the handkerchief in her grasp, Belle sets it in the right drawer of Étoile’s bed, leaving for her quarters through the balcony – only to find that Belle’s own balcony doors are locked. She peers through the glass, noting that the maid must have already been in, if her curtains are open.

Belle sighs. “Back to Étoile’s room.”

The princess walks back to Étoile’s room leisurely, entering the silent room with an air of boredom. Her anger at her imminent engagement has faded somewhat, with the new knowledge that her sister and soon-to-be brother-in-law have been sneaking around cheering her. She brushes her hand over the bedposts, smiling at the sight of numerous, folded paper butterflies hanging on the wall, just behind the door.

“She kept them,” Belle says to herself, wondering what other happy memories she would encounter, if she visited her siblings’ rooms more often. Belle remembers which one of the butterflies she made – it’s the one with blue swirls on the wings, from her experiments with a new pen she received the time they made them. Feeling a strong love for Étoile, Belle leaves her quarters, making her way towards Marcassin’s instead.

It’s about time her brother woke up.


	4. Day Two, Afternoon

Sir Maurice frowns heavily at the sight of Belle and Marcassin. In reply, Belle smiles beatifically, knowing his displeasure is from the matching crown braids on top of their heads and the bright red dresses they’d donned in rebellion.

“Father,” Belle greets him, coming to kiss his cheek. At her side, Marcassin dips her head respectfully, while Gaston and the lords and knights watch on in interest. “Was it not the plan to go hunting, this afternoon?”

“Sir Percinet declined,” Sir Maurice says neutrally. “You should be with Étoile.”

“Mother and Rosette are chaperoning her while Sir Percinet takes her on a walk through the village, Father,” Marcassin tells him. “We didn’t want to go.”

“Yes, you’ve no love of the village, do you, Belle?” Sir Maurice glances at his youngest, who tilts her head. It’s true enough – Belle used to visit when she was younger, naively wishing to bring prosperity in the form of reading lessons to young girls. It was not well received by the men – _or_ by the more traditional of the women, either.

“It’s a good thing you came here when you did,” Gaston then says, glancing at Sir Maurice pointedly, a grin growing on his face. “Certain alliances have been drawn up.”

Sir Maurice looks at Gaston through narrowed eyes. “Yes, they have. We will discuss them this evening, privately.”

Gaston, sensing his faux-pas, affects an agreeable expression. “Of course, of course, Sir Maurice. Whatever you will.”

“Indeed, whatever I will,” Sir Maurice replies, before turning back to Belle and Marcassin. “When Étoile and Sir Percinet return from the village, girls, inform your sister she should go into seclusion. We shall have dinner together as a family tonight, rather than eat in the banquet hall amongst the guests.”

Belle and Marcassin curtsey. “Yes, Father.”

“Off with you, now,” he orders. Grasping Marcassin’s arm, Belle leads her brother away, coming to a halt in the wide corridor beside an empty stretch of wall, where a portrait of the old king used to hang.

“He did not notice.”

Marcassin nods shortly. “I know,” he says. His hand brushes over his bound chest. “I think the red helped.”

“It’s a good colour on you,” Belle agrees, knowing he means that the red distracts from how flat he looks. “Slowly,” she says.

Marcassin nods again, agreeing, “Slowly.”

Squeezing his hand, Belle japes, “Next, we cut off your hair.”

Her brother bursts into laughter, unable to hold all the tension inside. “Never! What a cruel joke, Belle!” Marcassin shakes his head, smiling at her. “Slowly,” he says again.

Comfortable, the siblings walk through the palace, going nowhere in particular as they drag each other’s down corridors. At one point, they stop to say hello to Melusine’s friend, the Lady Angelique, a blonde trumpet of a girl who thinks quite highly of herself – much like Melusine, at times.

“I would have thought you’d be with your sister,” Angelique notes in a high, reedy voice, looking quite judgemental.

“We’re not fond of the villagers,” Marcassin says on Belle’s behalf. “What of you, Lady Angelique? Shouldn’t you be accompanying Melusine?”

Angelique glances around in a fit of paranoia, before leaning in and speaking in a low voice. “She’s organising a three-way tryst. She tried to invite me to join her. You need to reign her in, before the lords hear of it – or worse: your father.”

Alarmed, Belle grabs her hand. “Truly? When did she ask you this?”

“Less than an hour ago. Now,” Angelique takes back her hand sharply, bowing her head, “if you don’t mind, Your Highness, I’ll take my leave.”

“Don’t say any of this to others,” Belle warns. “Or I’ll have my mother send you home.”

Angelique scoffs, before sauntering away, looking far more regal than Belle and Marcassin. It seems to be a theme, though Belle partly blames how everyone is taller than her. Sometimes she hates how short she is.

“We’re all rule-breakers.”

“What?” Belle looks to Marcassin, who is watching Angelique leave with a strange look across his face. “How are we rule-breakers?”

“The rules of society,” Marcassin says, depressive tone clear. Belle looks around, catching sight of the only other person in the hallway, a guard that Belle knows by name – Phillipe. Trusting him not to run his mouth, Belle pays attention to what Marcassin is saying, rather than stopping him. “You take both men and women to your bed and so does Melusine, but she’s always inappropriate with her words as well as her actions.”

“It’s not wrong,” says Belle cautiously, quoting their mother. Marcassin screws his eyes shut, rubbing at his cheek, so delicate and feminine – the opposite of what he wishes to look like.

“But it’s still against the rules, here. _I’m_ against the rules. I’m not a real man, I’m just- I’m just a _fake_, Belle.”

“No! You aren’t a fake, you’re _you_, Marcassin,” Belle says, putting emphasis on _-sin_, where usually it’s _-sina_. When Marcassin looks at her again, brown eyes miserable, Belle envelops her older brother in a tight hug. Whispering in his ear, Belle encourages, “It won’t be forever.”

“But Father is marrying us off,” replies the distraught male. “And the Ogres are close to attacking. It’s not the right time. If only we had peace, if only we were a more southern territory-”

“Mother will stop him.” Belle interrupts. “I’ll throw myself at Gaston, if it means you don’t have to get married.”

Marcassin, not having been there that morning to witness Belle storming off, still seems delighted, if confused over Belle’s proclamation. “You would?”

“I promise,” Belle says, firm. It’s a sacrifice she’s willing to make for her brother with little thought to the consequences – just as heroic as any character from her books, if not as out and proud about it. Belle wants recognition, but not now, not when Marcassin’s safety is on the line.

_Later_, she tells herself, _later I’ll have some glory of my own._

Laughing a little, Marcassin nods with teary eyes, hugging her back tightly before Phillipe clears his throat in warning. They part and a pair of Gaston’s friends haggardly lope down the corridor, stopping at the sight of Belle and Marcassin.

“Princess Belle-”

“Your Highnesses!”

“Hungover, good sirs?” Belle asks in amusement, watching chagrin and regret float across their faces. “You’re not alone, but the wedding is tomorrow – save the rest of your celebrations until then.”

The knights stumble over themselves to apologise, saying they will, _of course, Princess Belle_. When they hurry past, Phillipe snorts audibly, Belle flashing him a smile that he returns with a wink.

“Come on,” she says to Marcassin, dragging her towards the entrance hall. When they arrive, the two siblings lean over the stone balconies overlooking the twisting staircases, watching people come and go.

“Did you mean it, before?” Marcassin eventually asks, being vague. Belle looks to her brother, smiling sadly.

“Of course I did. I always will. You’re my sibling, no matter what.”

Marcassin looks like he might cry happy tears for a moment, before he tucks his arm around Belle’s shoulders, squeezing lightly. All Belle wants is for Marcassin to be free – to be himself, to be a prince where he is a princess, to be a _man_ where he is a woman. She would do anything for a fairy to fly down from the heavens and bless her brother with the body he chooses, would pay any price…

A spark flies in her brain. _Any price._

Belle untangles herself from Marcassin’s embrace. “I forgot something,” she claims, “Can you tell Étoile our father’s orders?”

“I can,” Marcassin says, interest piqued. “What did you forget?”

Belle hesitates, before remembering that Mister Roberto had finished his repairs. A true smile blooms on her face.

“A book,” she says.

Marcassin grins, rolling his eyes. “Of _course_ it’s a book.” He waves his arms. “Go get it – I’d bet a whole silver that we’ll be dragging your nose out of _Her Handsome Hero_ come dinner.”

Mock-offended, Belle slips backwards, hand to her chest. “I can finish it well before dinner, thank-you!”

Another laugh escapes her brother’s open mouth. “I believe you!”

Grinning at him, Belle twists around and makes her way towards the library, so enthused by their conversation that she momentarily forgets she lied in the first place. Coincidentally, when she does recall, she’s at the junction in the hallway – west for the library and east to their quarters.

Taking the east corridor, Belle walks determinedly towards her room, stopping at the nook in the wall. Hoping there aren’t any servants inside, she slips in, making her way up, over and then down – down to the Dark One, pushing through the magical barrier. Like before, it flares purple, rippling.

“Back again so soon?” He drawls, standing from where he’d been laid down on the ground. In the meagre torchlight, she can see he’s wearing some kind of leather jacket and thigh-high boots. If he weren’t the Dark One, she’d compare him to a jester – all he’s lacking are the bells and the fool’s cap.

“Yes,” she says, brazen. “And I would like to make a deal.”

The Dark One raises an eyebrow. “Oh? What do you want, dearie? Do you want that fool of a suitor out of your way?”

“No – he’s part of the plan to help,” Belle denies, set on her course. She will marry Gaston, if it means getting her brother his truth. “I need to know something first, though.”

“Know what?” he asks, stepping closer to her. Belle raises her chin, preparing her question.

“Can you change a woman into a man, permanently?”

His eyes widen, but then he grins. “Why, of course, little princess. Cross my heart,” he gestures over his chest, pouting. “And to think, you’re so beautiful. It would be a shame to ruin it.”

“My sister is my brother. His name is Marcassina – Marcassin,” Belle tells him, “and it is hurting him to live like this. I want to give him what he wants.”

“And have you discussed this with him?”

“…no,” Belle says. “But I want to give him the option. Can you do it?”

“Hmm,” he hums, stroking his chin in thought, before pointing at her. “How about this: we’ll have a deal on hold. At the end of this week when I am freed, I will return to my Dark Castle and prepare the magic required to change a woman…into a man. All parts included.” He waggles his eyebrows and Belle blushes, not wanting to imagine Marcassin like that.

“And your price?”

“Not finished, dearie,” he says, before flourishing his hand. “For the charge of having our deal on hold, you will pay the small price of visiting me once a day, until the end of the week, continuing our little magical transportation for a conversation deal. Got that?”

Belle nods. “I can agree to that.”

“Good – and for the price of the actual deal, should it go through,” the Dark One states, pausing, “You will come with me.”

Eyes wide, Belle steps back. “What?”

“For a year and a day, you shall willingly stay in my Dark Castle. You won’t have to do much, maybe dust a little, do my laundry,” he grins, obviously having fun as he leans closer to her. “Not much, considering the other end of the deal; and that’s only if your brother agrees to it.”

“I-” Belle startles, realising that in the long run, it is not much at all. “You would really do that?”

“I would.”

The magnitude of what he’s offering hits her then. She drops to the ground, dazed, ignoring how the Dark One fidgets and clears his throat.

“Princess?” he starts, “_Princess_ – you probably don’t want to ruin your pretty little dress.”

“Marcassin,” she croaks, happiness welling in her chest. “Marcassin can be a man.”

“Yes, yes,” the Dark One crouches down in front of her, reaching out with a glittering, clawed hand to poke her chin. “You’ve got a good heart, dearie. It’s nice to see selflessness, in this day and age – though, if you tell anyone I said that, I’ll skin you.”

His words startle her out of her thoughts, blue eyes blinking rapidly as she absorbs his threat. “I- I won’t tell.”

“Good,” he says, offering her a hand as he straightens up again. Belle takes it, letting him pull her to his feet. They stand awfully close together as he does and Belle clears her throat as she steps back.

“Thank-you.”

“No problem,” he says, before bowing over the hand he still clasps in his own, kissing it. “Princess.”

Belle curtsies, her respect for him mounting with every word he says. “Dark One.”

“Go speak to your brother.”

“I will,” she promises, smiling as he lets go of her hand, smoke swirling around her feet. “I will.”


	5. Day Two, Evening

In the cream dining room, the Lordly family of Avonlea sits in a comfortable silence. Belle has _Her Handsome Hero_ laid out beside her cutlery, pages turning as she reads over familiar paragraphs; Marcassin glances at her every so often, a fond smile in place.

“Are you excited for tomorrow, _mon amour?_” Lady Colette eventually asks Étoile, peering at her from across the table.

“Very, Mama,” Étoile states, smiling. Beside her, Rosette grins, pointing at her with her bread.

“I heard you had a visitor in your quarters, last night.”

“Étoile, is this true?” Sir Maurice demands, her sister’s cheeks burning red. Belle raises her eyebrows, surprised that Rosette knows; did she inspect Étoile’s rooms as well?

“We are to be wed – and nothing happened, in any case. We read books and didn’t even kiss goodnight, for fear of being caught,” says Étoile, defending herself. “We were perfectly chaste, Papa.”

“Don’t call me _papa_ when you’re sleeping around with your fiancé!” Sir Maurice points a meaty finger at her, glaring. “What if you got with child?”

“_Papa_, we didn’t do that!”

“Maurice,” Lady Colette reaches for her husband, stroking his wrist, “I believe our _petite fille_, don’t make a scene.”

Sir Maurice glances at Descoteaux by the wall, humming dangerously. “Fine,” he huffs, before clearing his throat. “I have an announcement. Belle.”

“Yes, Father?”

Sir Maurice turns his eyes on Belle, gaze dragging across her braided crown down to her book, which she presses down with a flat palm. _It’s coming_, she thinks, _he’s going to tell me and not even ask._

“Sir Gaston LeGume has made an offer for your hand,” he says, words weighed. “In exchange, he would offer use of his armies in the coming war against the Ogres. As your father, it is my duty to see you married to fine men with honour and integrity, of which Gaston holds in abundance.”

Rosette snorts.

Sir Maurice sends her a sharp look before continuing. “Do you accept this reality, Belle? You would be bound to wed Gaston within the year.”

Her stomach roils. Belle closes her book. “I have conditions.”

“Name them.”

“First – I want Marcassina to be free to marry who she chooses,” Belle glances over at Marcassin, who looks at Belle with a clear expression of relief. _You will be even happier, once I tell you of my deal with the Dark One. _“And I want to explore.”

“Explore? Belle-”

“I want to roam the world, have adventures and see the far off kingdoms!” She straightens her back, stiff as she argues with her father. A year and a day, the Dark One had said. Belle needs time to disappear - _le__gitimate_ time. “Only twelve months. After, I will marry Gaston and do whatever he wishes, whether that be a broodmare in a castle or general at his side.”

“You ask too much, daughter,” her father shakes his head. “Anything could happen to you out in the wilds. What if you were attacked? Kidnapped? _Killed_, even?”

“Then I will endeavour _not_ to,” Belle replies, fearful that he will not agree. She pulls out her trump card. “I will not marry Gaston otherwise, father. I will spit in his face at the altar. I want to know the world outside of my books.”

“Books are _safe_,” Sir Maurice shakes his head again, looking at Belle beseechingly. “Won’t you do this for your father?”

“No, Papa, I won’t. I want a year. I want Marcassina’s choices to be her own. Only two conditions, Father – it could be worse.”

Her father clenches his fist, but her mother rubs his wrist again soothingly, meeting his eyes. Silently, as they did before they knew each other’s tongues, Sir Maurice and Lady Colette communicate with each other. Belle wants that – she remembers always being jealous of their connection, their _love_. Belle can’t imagine her parents ever being apart. It would be more than cruel.

“I’ll marry.”

Heads turn in Melusine’s direction. Her chin tilts down in deference, even though her eyes hold a spark that makes Belle suspicious – she hasn’t forgotten the tryst her sister tried to arrange with Lady Angelique. That Melusine is offering herself now can only be for Marcassin. They are siblings and they love each other – but each of them are selfish, in their own ways. Melusine covets her freedom as the fourth-born, flaunting it at times. Belle thinks again: _only for Marcassin._

“Let Belle have her year abroad," Melusine says, flippant. "She will marry Gaston when she returns and you can arrange a match for me. I won’t argue it.”

“Are you sure, Melusine?” Étoile asks in a hush, eyes wide.

“For Marcassin.” Melusine states and there is a moment of silence, before their father corrects her, eyes narrowed.

“_Marcassina_,” he says, looking to the son he doesn’t know he has. “Your sisters are sacrificing much for you, daughter. Why?”

Marcassin is silent.

Sir Maurice looks to each of his children, voice tinged with anger as he says, “I _will_ discover what it is you are hiding.”

“Maurice-” Lady Colette starts, but their father stands, throwing his lap-cloth onto the table. Much like Belle that morning, he storms off without another word, leaving Marcassin and the ladies of the palace at the table. Their mother waits until the doors have closed to speak to them, face shuttered with something dark. “Do not speak of those things around your father. Marcassina, after the wedding, find me and we will talk, _chéri_.”

“_Oui, maman_,” Marcassin murmurs, bowing her head. Belle looks to Melusine, who had almost given the whole affair away. She’s not surprised to see Étoile and Rosette both giving her matching glares, causing Melusine to flinch.

Lady Colette leaves, going after her husband.

Almost immediately, Belle throws _Her Handsome Hero_ at Melusine, who muffles her own shriek as Descoteaux jumps, startled.

“_V__ous êtes une petite merde de la princesse!_” Belle hisses, getting to her feet and leaning over the table. “Do you _want_ Marcassin banished from the province?”

Melusine, hands grappling at _Her Handsome Hero_, manages to send at least a small glare of her own. “It’s going to come out sometime! It might as well be before a big event, so if Marcassin has to run, people won’t notice as much! And _anyway_, I just promised to let him marry me off! Ungrateful bitch!”

“I have to marry _Gaston LeGume_, if you hadn’t noticed!” Belle weathers Melusine’s glare, looking to Marcassin. “Are you alright?”

Marcassin, quiet, only glances at Melusine once before nodding, playing with his soup. It’s clear how upset he is over Melusine’s apparent betrayal – and Melusine, at Marcassin’s reaction, seems to finally understand that. Regret splays across her face and she puts Belle’s book down, reaching for Marcassin.

“I’m sorry.”

“Sorry is not good enough, Melusine,” Rosette snaps from beside her. “You just endangered your sibling. This is a critical time. You can’t be reckless like that – and not only that, but the _disrespect_ to Marcassin you showed was horrific. He didn’t give you permission to inform Father of their circumstances.”

Melusine grits her teeth. “It has to happen some time.”

“But that isn’t your decision,” reminds Étoile, who finishes her soup quickly before departing. Rosette follows and Belle, wanting to tell Marcassin of her deal, drags her brother out. Melusine is left behind.

“Where are we going?” Marcassin asks, when Belle stops him outside the entrance to the servants’ corridor.

“It’s a secret – one that will give you what you want, brother.”

“What I want?” Marcassin repeats, brow furrowing. “What I want…”

“It is not unachievable,” Belle tells him, grasping his hands as she whispers. “Not with magic.”

Marcassin gasps. “Magic? Belle, what have you done?”

“Nothing, yet. I will tell you more, but not here. Follow me.”

And Marcassin follows her, all the way down to the spiral staircase to where the Dark One dwells. Belle tells her tale in whispers, tugging Marcassin along behind her when he stalls and frets halfway there. Eventually, they stumble into the wine cellar where the Dark One is playing with a golden string.

“I see you brought a friend – the brother?”

“Marcassin,” Belle introduces, “meet the Dark One. Dark One, my brother, Prince Marcassin of Avonlea.”

The Dark One gets to his feet, approaching with a certain glee to his features, back bent as he sneaks over on bended knees. Marcassin squeaks, trying to hide behind Belle.

“Marcassin. Marcassin, Marcassin, _Marcassin_…” the Dark One repeats, coming close to Belle so as to peer over her shoulder, his hair brushing her bare clavicle. They share a brief glance, Belle amused by his actions. His eyes are bright like golden pennies, animalistic and dilating at their close proximity. _Captivating_, Belle notes in a clinical, but intrigued manner. _I like them._

The Dark One giggles, before taking a step back again, giving her space again.

“Your sister here made an offer, yesterday. A year of service, for a potion to turn you from a woman to a man, permanently.”

“Did she? Truly?”

“She did.”

Belle turns to Marcassin, squeezing his hands. “This is what you want. He can give it to you and I only have to stay as captive in his castle for the time I told Father I would be adventuring.”

“He could do _anything_ to you,” whispers Marcassin, who shakes in fear. “I wouldn’t do that to you.”

“Our deal is more detailed than that,” Belle replies, “so don’t worry about me. Ask yourself if you will take this chance, Marcassin. I don’t know what would happen after, but you would be a _man_, Marcassin. Your body, your life…”

Her brother sobs, his shoulders shaking. Belle doesn’t hesitate before wrapping him in a tight embrace, pressing a kiss to his fine cheekbones and murmuring comforts. Over his shoulder, Belle sees the Dark One watching, silent and unresponsive – his eyes locked on them both, unblinkingly.

When Marcassin finally calms some, he tugs himself out of Belle’s arms and turns to the Dark One, nodding.

“A verbal cue would be appreciated, dearie.”

“Then- then _yes_, I want it.”

The Dark One nods, snapping his fingers. A quill appears in his right hand and a paper contract in his left. Marcassin reaches out, taking it to read in the torchlight, hesitating over some areas and outright grinning over others. Eventually, he looks to Belle, smiling, teary-eyed.

“Thank-you, thank-you _so much, _Belle. I love you. I’ll never forget this.”

“I love you, too, Marcassin,” she says, unafraid. She watches her brother sign the contract, the Dark One vanishing it a moment later.

“Good! Very good – now, shoo, Prince Marcassin. You’ll be a real man in a few days.”

Marcassin curtsies all the way to the floor, falling to his knees. “My most sincere thanks, Dark One.”

The Dark One wiggles his fingers. “Enough of that. Get up – go celebrate. Your sister stays, for now. She owes me a conversation.”

“Yes, Dark One,” her brother says, getting to his feet and embracing Belle once more, lingering only briefly before leaving. Everyone seems to be running out on Belle, today. Silence ensues upon his departure.

“…nice lad.”

“Yes,” Belle smiles fleetingly at the Dark One calling her brother ‘lad’. “Do you do this sort of thing often?”

“What do you think?”

“I think you must have,” Belle confides, clasping her hands together. “You barely reacted at all.”

The Dark One scoffs fakely. “Or maybe I’m just that immune to the strange.”

“I don’t think so,” she peers at him, taking a step closer. “Were there others? Men who were women, women who were men?”

He’s quiet for a long moment, but then his head dips to the side in a half-nod and Belle beams at him, reaching forwards to grasp his lapels. He startles as she kisses his cheek in gratitude.

“You’re a good man, whomever you are under the title _Dark One_. I know it.”

The Dark One stares at her, eyes wide in innocent shock. “I- you-”

“Speechless, Dark One?”

The man swallows, before hesitantly saying, “Rumple. Rumplestiltskin. My name is..._Rumplestiltskin.”_

“Rumplestiltskin,” Belle repeats, the word not rolling off her tongue like the names of her siblings – but it suits him, as jittery as he is. Stepping back, Belle offers a court-worthy curtsy. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Rumplestiltskin.”

He bows low, saying her name for the first time, too. “And you, _Belle_.”

That night when she returns to her rooms, the servant girl is waiting. Belle thinks her name is Fifi – Babette? It’s an embarrassing thing to ask someone their name, when you’re knuckle deep inside them. Belle distracts herself from that fact by kissing down her sternum, pressing her against the bed and not even bothering to tell her to quiet down or to press her head into the pillow.

Below, she knows that _Rumplestiltskin_ can hear.

Is it voyeurism? He cannot see, though he has implied he can hear. Belle wonders how the sound carries. Can he hear when she makes the girl below her shriek? The first time he heard evidence of her exploits, was it a break from the monotony of a bare room?

Part of her thinks it unfair to the servant, though she is almost _suspiciously_ loud. She is a servant in the palace – she knows that Étoile lives next door.

Eventually, however, it is Belle’s turn and she closes her eyes as a mouth presses to her bud, thinking of golden eyes and clawed hands. It is a dark fantasy, imagining how his black nails would rake across her skin, digging deep enough to hurt her and draw blood – but the servant has workers hands, brushing her thighs oh-so gently. Her skin is not like diamonds, almost green like a reptile’s – and quickly, Belle lets the familiar situation drag her under. She does not think of the Dark One or how he might pleasure her – no, she does not.

When all is said and done, Belle thinks to herself: _o, what a liar I have made of myself._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mon amour - my love  
Petite fille - little girl  
Chéri - darling (m)  
Oui, maman - yes, mother  
Vous êtes une petite merde de la princesse! - You are a little shit of a princess!


	6. Day Three

The quarters of Étoile Pernelle de Avonlea are a flurry of activity. In the centre of it all it Étoile herself, dressed in golden chiffon and gossamer with exquisite embroidery from her shoulders to the floor, her long hair loose, except for where a red carnation is pinned over her left ear.

Belle is the furthest away from her sister, which she repeatedly tries to correct. But her siblings block her way and the servants tending Étoile and Rosette are in constant movement. It frustrates her, making her skin itch and her temper rise. She wants to help – Étoile can only get married _once_ to her beloved Percinet!

“What can I do?” she asks, watching Étoile ignore her as she frets over her bracelet with Melusine, her mother’s head barely turning as she speaks to her in a distracted fashion.

“Belle, _cherie_, why don’t you see to it that the priest and his retinue are prepared? We will come and join you when Étoile is ready, _oui?_”

Belle sees how Colette turns back to Étoile and she feels guilty for wanting attention. This is Étoile’s big day – the best thing she can do it get out of the way.

Quiet, Belle slips out of the room, being careful not to catch her dress in the door on her way out. A bridesmaid to her sister, Belle has a less eye-catching dress in pale red, the waist higher and the embroidery far simpler than Étoile’s; Belle should know, as she’s the one that had to embroider it.

_I’ve always been terrible at sewing_, she thinks, sighing to herself. Belle does not go to the church like her mother advised, but to her room instead, standing in front of her mirror and listening to the buzz through the wall in front of her. _I have no use, at the moment._

Her thoughts turn to Rumplestiltskin. What would he think of Étoile’s wedding? He is all alone beneath her, in the cellar of her family’s palace – it is more than likely he has no idea as to the events taking place. Belle imagines him attending with the other nobles, a gap of five feet between him and the other men as he gleefully clapped and showered Étoile and Percinet in conjured flower-petals.

Belle shakes her head. _He could not do that,_ Belle scolds herself. _He would not. He is the Dark One – knowing his name is a privilege._

She cannot help but be fascinated, however. Rumplestiltskin – a commoner’s name. An unusual name, but still, it belongs to a miller or a charlatan, not the _Dark One._ Where does this ‘Rumplestiltskin’ come from? What was he before he became a magician? Belle cannot fathom him as king of a castle, though clearly, he has one now.

A loud _thump_, then a series of laughter echoes through the wall and Belle feels a stab of loneliness, for having missed the joke. Someone might have fallen over or tripped on their dress. Did Marcassin stumble into the bed and trip? Her brother used to do that for fun, when they were small, just to hear everyone laugh.

_Can Rumplestiltskin hear them?_ Belle thinks, the urge to see him growing in her chest. She has a deal, after all and the festivities tonight would surely cause her to break her word. A smug warmth envelops her. _Yes,_ she smiles, before making her way into the servants’ corridor.

Once on her way, it only occurs to Belle that the corridor may be dirty when she sees a sooty mark on the wall. She draws her dress close to herself, padding along on her silk slippers with care. Rumplestiltskin peers at her curiously when she glances at the stone floor in wariness.

“Pretty dress,” he says, flourishing his wrist and leaning forwards somewhat, eyebrow quirking upwards. “Very pretty dress, in fact. What event is going on today then, Princess?”

“My sister’s wedding,” says Belle, still looking at the floor. She can’t see it in all this dimness and Rumplestiltskin makes a faux-tired noise, fingers snapping. In an instant, the torches flare and the dark room is suddenly lit like a summer’s day, revealing a red-velvet chaise, a bookcase stuffed to the brim with books, a table full of broken quills and inkpots and finally, a spinning wheel – and at its base, a pile of shimmering, golden straw.

Belle gapes at the transformation, belatedly realising that the room is clean to the point of disturbing. What does he do? Clean for fun?

“I got bored.” Rumplestiltskin excuses himself, bowing to her briefly before offering a hand. It sparkles and Belle waits only a moment before reaching out, taking it. To her surprise, his skin is not rough, but smooth like any man’s – he even has callouses in strange places, along his thumbs and fingers.

“Good morning,” Belle says to him, trying to distract from her own befuddlement as he leads her to the chaise. She doesn’t think it works, as she sees him smile in amusement when they sit. “How did you get these things in here?”

“How do you think?” He flourished his hand again, giggling. “Magic, Princess.”

She smiles. She cannot help it. While he may have strange features and the ability to cast the darkest of magics, she has not seen these things from the man in front of her; all he has been is kind. It feels like fate to have met him – to have found a solution to Marcassin’s problems, while putting off her wedding for at least a year. There will be an inevitable end to this acquaintance and Belle finds herself melancholy already; she does not want him to leave.

“Penny for your thoughts?” He asks, breaking her moment. Belle shakes her head hurriedly, looking away from him.

_He is the Dark One. Remember that,_ she thinks, glancing back at him. “How old are you?” she asks.

Rumplestiltskin titters. “Such a rude question. I thought princesses were meant to be polite?”

“I’m not polite,” Belle says boldly, channelling Melusine’s reckless impunity. Rumplestiltskin giggles again, leaning close and tapping her nose once, then twice.

“You are pure as the driven snow! Your future might be cloudy, but that, at least, is clear!”

“My future?” Belle inquires, intrigued.

“I dream things,” he tells her, pausing for effect before saying, “You’re quite young, though not as young as another winter-born. Two years, perhaps – she’s just gone on the run, actually, from her royal stepmother. How old are _you?_”

“Now who’s being rude, asking a woman’s age?” Belle can’t help but chat back, the two sharing grins before she nods, wondering who the other girl is. “I am twenty-one; and you?”

“Oh…too many years for me to remember,” he admits, quietly, illustrating with his hands; she notices that he does that a lot, distracting from his face by moving his arms around. “Certainly, three hundred at least.”

“At _least?_” Belle’s eyes widen. “How? Is it your magic that keeps you alive?”

“Staying alive is easy – it’s the _aging_ part that confounds many, though,” he says, almost conspiringly. Belle leans in, eager and he weaves a fascinating lesson on magic and the intricacies of the flesh; he tells her of how sorcerers imbue every part of their body with magic, slowing time within themselves and healing what dies.

“Some,” he says, giggling, “put too much in! That’s how you get spontaneous combustion, dearie.”

Belle giggles, then hears a far-off bell ringing. She gasps and stands, horrified. “That’s the call for assembly at the church! Étoile is ready to marry – I’ll never make it there in time!”

Rumplestiltskin jumps to his feet as she gathers her skirts, about to run. “Allow me,” he offers, hand resting in the middle of the air. “Concentrate on where you want to go – somewhere no-one will see, where you can reach your sister.”

“What do I owe you?” Belle asks, watching him shake his head.

“A one-off,” he proclaims, trilling, “and no more, after this. I’ve been far too lenient. Now, focus.”

“I trust you,” Belle says, closing her eyes. She misses how his own widen in shock, too busy focusing on her room, behind the door where no-one would see if they came into the room. Skirt bunched in hand, she barely feels the magic swirling around her, smoke twisting and curling up and up, until she is in her bedroom once more.

As if on cue, the door to her room opens, Marcassin popping his head inside, calling out her name. “Belle? Belle – we’re going. Where are you?”

Quiet as a mouse, Belle bursts around the door, frightening her brother with an incoherent noise. Marcassin lets out a high-pitched shriek and Belle hears a clamour from the corridor, Colette bustling over with a small smile on her face, reaching to take Belle’s hands.

“Come now, my beautiful children. Étoile must be accompanied to the church, now and it is your duty to follow behind her as her _demoiselles d’honneur_.”

“Yes, come, _clochette_,” says Étoile’s matron of honour, Frida’s deep voice teasing and full of amusement. Belle huffs, rolling her eyes at the nickname.

“It’s not that clever.”

Frida’s moon-white eyes are blank, but the smile upon her cheeks is enough to confer her disagreement. “You are a little bell, _clochette._”

“You just said that twice,” Melusine and Belle say as one, the party of women tittering at the synchronised words. Colette reaches to take Étoile’s arm, waving them onwards.

“To the church, _mademoiselles_.”

“_Oui, maman_,” Belle chimes, sending one last glare at Frida before the group head onwards.

Étoile’s wedding is bright and full of flowers. Sunlight reaches through the tall church windows to illuminate her and Percinet as they kneel in front of the priest, Étoile in gold and Percinet in red. Everyone can see his cloak, long and sweeping, arranged just so the crowds can see his coat of arms. Surely, Percinet was not to one to make such a decision – not that Belle has any room to judge, regarding choices.

Gaston’s hand rested on the small of her back the entire ceremony. Her father had invited him to stand with the family and Belle did not protest verbally – no-one could, unless they wished to show all watching that there laid dissent within their family. It was a nasty shock to see Gaston up there on the dais and even Étoile did a double-take, not informed of their father’s decision.

_This is my fault_, Belle thinks bitterly, guiltily. _He should not have been there._

And then at the wedding luncheon, yet again Gaston sits among them. Belle’s back aches after hours of sitting stiffly, always aware of he touches her. If his hand is not on her back, it is on her knee or even clasped within her own. Her only blessing is that he is less talkative than usual, sat away from his friends and respecting the fact that this is Étoile and Percinet’s special day.

Belle remembers how he assaulted her less than two days ago. His intimidating presence and his rock-solid torso are unforgettable recollections and she feels sick to her stomach, Belle’s experience of her sister’s wedding soured.

In the afternoon, there is a performance by musicians and playwrights. To Belle’s overwhelming relief, her mother drags her to sit amongst her family and she gets to forget, for a while. Étoile sits with Percinet, hands clasped together and bound together, ribbon around their wrists – they’re only supposed to remove it when they go to bed together, to tie around the door-handle of their room.

Then comes dinner.

“Princess,” Gaston bows, offering his hand. Belle takes it reluctantly, pasting on an even smile. He grins, winking at her as he pulls her close to his side, leading her to Étoile’s high table. They sit, side by side – their chairs closer than they should be. “I heard from your father that our betrothal is all but written.”

He is repugnant. Belle will probably have nightmares of the time he tried to force himself on her. But she has to smile and smile she does; if it is brittle, he does not notice.

“_Oui_,” she says in her native tongue, the only way she can control the situation. Gaston’s expression stays the same, bar the slight tightening on his grip. “We are to be married over a year from now, after I have travelled the lands and had an adventure of my own.”

“Beautiful ladies such as yourself are not meant for the wilds,” Gaston counters, self-assured and flippant. His hand dips from the small of her back, lower, tracing along the curve of her arse. Belle forces herself not to shriek. “Why not stay? A long engagement is proper, yes – but why not spend it in my home? You will enjoy it, I assure you.”

“A deal was struck,” Belle replies, terse. All at once she is _tired_ of this farce and she lowers her voice so only he can hear, almost vulgar in her speech. “A year of freedom for myself, in exchange for my agreement to this engagement. I will marry you Gaston, but know it was not because I wanted to.”

His façade cracks. A darkness pools in his eyes and this close, Belle can practically feel the danger thrum beneath his skin. He understands perfectly. He is not always the boorish brute she makes him out to be in her mind – here and now, Belle can see it, his anger palpable, Étoile’s wedding a clear, contrasting backdrop.

Belle reminds herself that he has slain an Ogre.

When her father stands, the room coming to attention, Gaston takes on a neutral expression. Sir Maurice congratulates Étoile and his new son-by-law, Sir Percinet smiling and kissing Étoile on the lips, looking like a fool in love. Belle’s father shakes his head, obviously happy for them.

“Yes, good tidings to you both. I am glad you have joined our family, Sir Percinet,” says Sir Maurice, raising his goblet. Most of the room copies him and applause rings out, party-goers hooting and whistling in joy. Sir Maurice nods and eventually, when the noise dies down, he continues. “But today is not just a day for weddings, but for engagements. It is my honour to announce that my youngest daughter, Princess Belle, is to be wed to Sir Gaston LeGume!”

Eyes turn on Belle and that brittle smile returns. _For Marcassin_, she thinks, though in her mind there are plans to escape already growing. Once her brother is officially her brother, there will be nothing keeping her here – no magic binding her by contract, not like with the Dark One. Her year and a day is negligible, nothing in the face of a lifetime in Gaston’s court.

_Only my word_, Belle thinks. _Only a promise, which I would gladly break if it meant a lifetime of adventure._ For a moment, her spirits are high.

And then, she is starkly reminded why there is to be an engagement in the first place.

Her father raises his cup, shouting over the cheers. “With this alliance, the Ogres will have no choice but to fall back! Our combined armies will face the beasts and win the day!”

Belle’s joy dies and Gaston’s grasp around her waist tightens. Étoile and Sir Percinet’s wedding feast becomes a bastion of sound, war cries indistinguishable from the applause.


	7. Day Four, Early Morning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> trigger warning: attempted rape/non-con and talks of abortion, followed by consensual sex.

His breath is hot in her ear, hand shucked up between her skirts. His fingers are warm and they touch places she doesn’t want him to touch, pressing against her thighs, brushing up against her in warning.

“You are to be my wife,” menaces Gaston, his whisper a threat. “Why shouldn’t I take my due? Even you would never wish to have a child out of wedlock.”

“I would get rid of it,” Belle hisses in return, eyes teary and locked with his own. He can see the lie. For all she calls herself brave, Belle doesn’t think she has it inside her to end the life of an unborn child.

He humours her. “Of course. I applaud you for your forward-thinking, princess – I can take you as many times as I wish without having to worry.” The arm leant against her own lifts briefly so he can further press her to the wall of the sitting room and it is the moment Belle takes, reaching up with two fingers to jab at his eyes.

“_Gah!_” Gaston bats at her wildly, knocking her from his own grasp. Belle’s head abruptly rings, her stomach turning as she finds herself slammed against the panelled wooden floor. The pain takes a moment to come, but when it does it is sharp and draws a sharp breath from her. Belle turns onto her behind, scrambling backwards as Gaston staggers and rubs at his eyes.

_Run! _Belle’s mind screams, the right side of her face burning in pain. _Run, you fucking imbecile, **run!**_

She gets to her feet, lunging for the locked door. The key turns with a loud _click_ under her hand and she hears the start of a rumbling roar behind her. Frantic, heart racing in her chest, Belle can barely feel her feet as she runs through the palace, red skirts and dark hair flying behind her. Her home is a blur and the missing tapestries and decorations confuse her – turning her around corners she wouldn’t have chosen, pressing her up and down staircases she barely recognises.

Somehow, though, Gaston’s pounding feet fade into the distance. Somehow, Belle finds herself leaning against Rosette’s door in tears, failing to turn the locked handle.

A strange sort of shame fills her, even though she wants the comfort of her sister. She cannot go to Étoile on her wedding night and neither will Melusine be available, most likely, while Marcassin…no, Belle would not burden Marcassin with this. Rosette has had pushy suitors, Rosette…

Belle leans her head against her sister’s door, silent even as her chin wobbles and her nose itches from the need to cry. She squeezes the steel handle of the door once more before forcing herself to let go. If the revelry is so much that she can hear it from the Royal Quarters, then there will surely be none who she might impose herself upon.

Except-

“No,” says Belle to herself, running her fingers under her eyes and feeling how wet both they and her cheeks still are afterwards. She has no handkerchief to dry her face.

_What he tried to do was horrible and- and disgusting. Shameful. _Her face still stings from his blow. Belle squeezes her eyes shut, despairing. _I never want to see Gaston again._

But Avonlea needs the armies of Roseberge. They are one of the most Northern principalities and Belle’s hand in marriage to Gaston will save them from the Ogres. Belle will have her year and a day, even if it is spent being the Dark One’s housekeeper, but once that is done, she will forever be Gaston’s bride, his wife in all things.

She remembers his hands on her thighs – the way his knuckles grazed her and how he stared her in the eyes as he did it.

_I never want to see Gaston again._

Belle makes for the servant’s corridor.

When she finds her way to his side, she is listing to one side. The world seems smaller. Her head hurts as Rumplestiltskin cradles it gently, eyes dark with anger. She can tell it’s not directed at her; his anger makes her feel safe.

“Who did this to you?” He growls, sweeping her off her feet and bringing her to the chaise. Belle clutches at the ruffled brown shirt that replaces his usual leather ensemble this evening, but that grip abruptly disappears when he pushes her skirt out of the way so he can sit.

“No!” She aims to hit him, to keep him _far_ away and the Dark One startles, making a noise of fright as he physically leaps backwards, out of range. Belle breathes heavily, eyes wide. “I- no, I’m sorry. I just- Gaston-”

“Your suitor did this to you?” He clarifies from her words, hissing with his teeth bared. “Did he touch you?”

“No – yes. He didn’t…he didn’t rape me,” says Belle, words slurring together. The heady pain surrounds her like a fog. “He didn’t manage to.”

“Is that why he hurt you?”

Belle struggles, wiping furiously at her face and wincing when she brushes the area Gaston had hit. It’s swollen and it throbs with a pulse of its own so strong that it makes her head hurt even more.

The Dark One swears abruptly, roaring loud and long, kicking at the nearest table – a short thing, holding half a hundred loose-leaf papers and books aplenty. All fall to the floor, flung away as the table snaps and breaks. Belle watches in shock as he destroys it with inhumane strength, curling her legs up against her.

_Why does he anger? Is it for me?_ Belle already thinks there is a kind man beneath the Dark magic he shrouds himself, his reputation either exaggerated or critically underdeveloped. When he begins to still, a hypertension in his shoulders and an energy almost fizzling in the air from his anger, she can hear him gnashing his teeth.

“Why do you care for me like this?”

Rumplestiltskin looks her way. There is hate in his gaze. “Because ordinary men can be more evil than the worst of sorcerers. Because _politics_ are driving a young princess to marry her assaulter.” He spits the word _politics_ out like it’s a curse. “What does your kingdom even gain? Cannon fodder?”

“An elite force with twenty-three Ogre kills on their belts,” answers Belle, almost despondently. Her reply brings the Dark One up short.

“Impossible.”

“Not to Gaston,” she mumbles, closing her eyes. Her head hurts. It does not hurt as much as some of her monthly bleedings have before, but the location is new and all the more distracting. She asks in another mumble, “Do you have healing powers?”

He hesitates, “No, but…but I have something that will help. Give me some time.”

And so Belle sits on the chaise, curled up and unable to fall into slumber from the voracious ache in her brain. Her cheek is so swollen – she can’t move it for fear of a bolt of pain through her jaw. Eventually, Rumplestiltskin crouches beside her, a vial in hand.

“It will not be pleasant, but it will be effective. Your injury should…calm, somewhat.” He tells her, before whispering, “Lovely princess.”

A twinge of her usual humour flows through her, at that. Belle does not smile, but she does say in an amused voice, “I do hope this year and a day will be spent in _close_ proximity to you, Dark One. Otherwise, calling me _lovely_ may be off the table.”

Rumplestiltskin is scandalised – she can see it on his face as she takes the potion from him, forcing it down her throat. The pain is sharp, but the effect is immediate, lowering the swelling and reducing the hurt and the fog in her brain exponentially. Belle thinks she might even be able to sleep, so long as she doesn’t lie on her right side.

“So…”

“So…” Belle repeats, before leaning across to kiss his cheek like she had the evening before. Her hand rises to his chest automatically, to keep her from falling off the chaise. He makes a noise of interest, almost like a whine, before he leaps upwards. It pushes her back and Belle sees how he wags his finger, tutting.

“No. Naughty princess. I’ve _heard_ what you get up to in your free time. Sex and magic do _not_ mix.”

“Why, Dark One,” Belle smiles, fabricating a put-on voice as she presses a hand to her breast, “would you accuse me of being a lecher? A whore?”

He tuts again. Nervously. Their eyes don’t leave each other’s until he skips further away, turning to snap his fingers. Magic swirls – and then the table is repaired, the papers and books laying upon it like he never destroyed it in the first place.

“Certainly not, dearie. Certainly not.”

“I’m not so sure that I believe you,” Belle replies boldly, finding their conversation fun, distracting – even though every insinuation and assumption makes her think of Gaston and what he’d just done to her, less than an hour ago.

Rumplestiltskin goes still. He is still turned away from her. For a moment, Belle wonders if she’s gone too far – but then, he turns around.

His eyes are dark. Not with anger. Not with hate. No, they are dark in a way Belle recognises intimately, the way she sees herself in the mirror of her boudoir when she sits and lets the scullery maids and baker’s boys put their heads between her thighs.

All thoughts of Gaston leave her. Her fantasy, the one with the Dark One in her bed, nails raking down her back, returns in full force.

“Princess,” he curls her title across his tongue in a way that makes her shiver, “be very, _very_ careful what you say to me next.”

“I don’t want to be careful at all,” Belle professes, eyes clear.

His gleaming smile is short, flashing between the blank, dark-eyed façade and a concerned frown. He steps forth, disappearing. She feels his hand run over her shoulder from behind, toying with the edge of her maid-gown as he leans down, close to her ear.

“Are you quite sure you want this, princess? This isn’t a way to get out of your deal with me?”

A bitter snort escapes her and Belle twists on the chaise, grasping his shirt and bringing her down to his level. She asks, rhetorical, “Do you truly believe I want to marry Gaston _early?_” An almost entertained look is upon him when they kiss, finally. When her eyes close, she can feel his hands in her hair, snarling in her distressed curls as their lips lock, her tongue running over his teeth.

He pushes her backwards, climbing on top of her. Belle breathes in deeply, unable to help the triumphant smile. Said triumphant smile disappears when he banishes her clothes, the cool air rushing over her skin like a cold bath.

“Hey!”

Rumplestiltskin gives her a twisted grin, finger running over her goose bump-speckled skin. But he snaps his fingers, filling the room with heat like a roaring fire is set in the wall.

“Thank-you,” Belle says, almost diplomatic as she tugs his shirt from his breeches. It’s made difficult by how he dips down to press his lips to her clavicle, hands too busy holding him up to do anything else. “Not- not that I’m complaining, but perhaps my dignity would be better-served if you, too, were _au naturelle._”

“As you wish, my lovely Belle,” he murmurs. His term of endearment causes her to shiver once more, this time in some kind of repressed delight. The shirt disappears – as do his boots and breeches.

“How enchanting.” Belle rakes her fingers through his faded hair, noting how it shimmers in the torchlight, just like his green-gold skin. He giggles and she laughs, too. What levity he brings her, after such a horrid event!

His hands caress her flesh, nails drawing down her arms and along the curve of her belly. The princess is sure to reach for him, too, entwining her fingers in his curls so they might kiss again before she traces the line of his ribs and sternum.

“Such a beautiful princess,” he murmurs, laving her neck and dragging his teeth down her pert breast. He cares little for what marks he leaves behind, a stark difference to the servants who feared it.

“Rumplestiltskin,” Belle sighs his name. His hands move to her sacred place, fingers dancing along the red flesh. She moans and he giggles insanely, like he doesn’t believe what’s happening.

“Princess Belle,” he says her name over and over, “Lovely Belle. Precious Belle, beautiful Belle…”

And she rises and falls, making a mess of the chaise, even as her hands grasp him and repeat her circumstance on him with twice as much enthusiasm. The Dark One groans and whines, mouthing at her neck and pulling her onto his lap when he finishes, head resting in the crook of her neck. His breathing is deep and Belle thinks that Rumplestiltskin is like any other man, underneath it all.

“You truly wish to awaken the beast?” he asks her, but his voice is soft and pleasant, not at all _beastly_ or _dark._ Belle hums in acquiescence, tilting his head and kissing his warm forehead. His glittering skin makes the experience all the more unique, Belle forcing herself to remember this night.

Abruptly, the Dark One seizes, back curling and his hands on her waist grasping tight enough to make her gasp in pain. At her hurt noises, he relents, but his movements are jerky as he leans back, eyes distant.

“Things have changed…”

“What has changed? Rumplestiltskin?” Belle strokes his hairline, worried for this magician in her basement. He blinks away his confusion eventually, but Belle still frowns at him in worry. “Rumple?”

He tilts his head, staring at her for a moment before his hands rub at her hips in apology. “I see the future. The timelines have shifted for one reason or another. I’m sure it’s not important.”

“If you’re sure,” murmurs Belle, still concerned – still frowning. The Dark One kisses her delicately, more hesitant than before. Belle wonders if this is his way of trying to comfort her in turn. _He does not fear nor anger,_ she thinks, figuring that…that the future must be safe.

Belle turns their delicate kiss into one of passion, hearing his low growl and the hard length of him poke at her thigh.

“Do you wish for this, princess? Will you beg for it?”

And Belle, oh, how she wants this.

“_Please,_” she wishes, “_take me._”

His darkened eyes turn darker.

“Your wish is my command.”


End file.
